


Nocnitsa

by Hyena_Poison



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, Possessive Behavior, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:25:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyena_Poison/pseuds/Hyena_Poison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane seems to be sucking the life out of Jesse, and Walter decides to intervene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a [Kinkmeme](http://brbakinkmeme.livejournal.com/521.html?thread=352777#t352777/) prompt.

It is hers. Hers, and no one else's. There would be no sharing, no others to distract it, to pull it from her arms and away. She hadn’t had one in so long, too long. Always hungry, that aching, all-present, bone-shaking need that hovers and shrieks like birds captive in her skull.

But this one needs too, that is why it is easy to pick off. Weak, she knows, damaged, she is sure, looking for someone, anything, to balm those hurts. She listens to it sleep, through the walls, slips into its dreams—she touches nothing, not yet, now is the time to watch, to gather. Sometimes, she sits with it as it sleeps, smells sweat and smoke and cheap food. Sometimes, she brushes the soft honey-colored strands from its forehead, watches as her touch eases its restlessness.

It comes to her, without even a struggle, in its eyes the deep weariness of life and futility. She plays the game—rejection and flirtation, mixed and muddy messages, until its head is spinning, twisted up and every way around her finger. And finally, finally, she gives in, takes a taste of what will be hers: a kiss, a simple kiss that is so much more. A link, she knows, until it dies.

It thinks it is breathless from the kiss, floored from their passion. It does not see the new flush in her skin, the luster spread down each strand of hair. Her hunger purrs, slips into a quiet murmuring she can almost force into the background. Almost.

She holds its hand, mimics the smile it gives her. And she knows, as it gently, reassuringly, squeezes her hand, that it is hers, now until it is no more.

 

\------

 

Walt knocks, pauses, knocks, repeats. It takes Jesse a full five minutes to answer, something Walt means to point out to him, but changes his mind when he opens the door. The kid is pale—not inside-watching-TV-all-day pale, but sick pale, pale like the people he sits with while undergoing chemo. His eyes are dull, smudges of gray-purple beneath them. Messy hair, and he leans against the door frame like he can’t support himself completely.

“What,” Jesse sighs, none of the usual anger, annoyance, flippancy color his tone. Walt thinks maybe if he is that unwell, it is good that he stopped by.

“We were supposed to meet two hours ago,” Walt thinks he is being patient here, level, and is tested by Jesse’s blank stare. “I called you, I don’t know, fifty times?” Jesse rolls his eyes, leaves the door open for Walt to follow inside; the pile of blankets and sleeping bags Jesse is settling onto is surrounded by empty beer bottles, chip bags, and fast food wrappers.

Jesse scrubs his face with both palms. “Well?” Walt raises his eyebrows, expectant. “No excuses? No ‘sorry I forgot?’, or ‘I was too high to wake up’? Nothing?”

“It’s like, Tuesday, Mr. White. We don’t meet until tomorrow, so get off my back.”

Walt stares at him, mouth open, until he finally, disbelievingly, forces out, “No, Jesse, it is Wednesday, and we were supposed to meet two hours ago. That’s why I called you, that’s why I drove all the way out here. I thought, maybe—but instead, I find you,” he waves a hand at Jesse in general.

He does not expect the confused, almost frightened look on Jesse’s face, lost and quietly scrambling to find direction. “I’m…I don’t know, I’ve been not feeling, not great, for the, uh, past few days, I…I think maybe there’s something wrong—”

Jesse’s head snaps up as Jane slips in through the open door, keeping her distance from Walt as she goes to Jesse’s side. His face goes foggy, losing whatever he was going to tell Walt as she runs long nails through the kid’s hair.

“Hey, you okay?” She asks gently, rubbing his head. She catches Walt watching, smiles like winning a prize, and his frown deepens.

“Uh, yeah. No, I guess, I think I’m just tired,” Jesse manages, leaning into her touch.

Jane smiles again, colder, less like a painted mask, “I think you should go. Now.” She nods to the door, sinks down beside Jesse, who shakes as he grabs for her hand. She whispers into his ear, Jesse closes his eyes, leans his dead back against the wall, and a single tear slips.

Walt leaves, reluctant, confusion raking at his mind. He can still hear Jane murmuring to Jesse as he closes the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

The other is gone, for days now, but her sweet is still stuck on it. She tries to distract it, takes it to museums, reads it poetry. It smiles, forgets for a few hours, then slips away to pick at old wounds. She makes herself harder to ignore. She holds it against the mattress, rains pleasure on it until it is exhausted, out of breath. This, she knows, is when she must be most careful.

This is when her veil is thinnest.

She knows, when it squeezes its eyes shut, covers its face with an arm, after they finish. She doesn’t remember letting the mask slip, letting it see before its mind was completely hers. She pumps its veins with cheap drugs; it makes it easier to pretend. Pretend that what it sees isn’t really what it sees, that it can’t be sure, that it could all be from drugs and dreams.

It isn’t working she knows, not well enough. Love isn’t the only thing in its eyes. It flinches before sinking into her touch. It watches her always, not completely with desire or need, but an animal wariness.

The other, she knows, has done this. They speak on the phone, whispers that go quiet when she walks in the room. The other complicates things. Plants doubts. She thinks maybe she should take the other, snap the little threads that hold them here. The other is weak, not like her sweet, but weak with sickness, a weakness that cannot disappear by will alone.

She will break the other. She will break them and the sweet will be all hers again. 

 

\------

 

Walt hasn’t slept, really slept, in days. Little snatched hours, light naps, nothing more. He feels drained, can’t catch his breath, wants nothing more than to crawl into bed. He tries to call it stress, convince himself that work is bleeding into his outside life, thinks maybe it is the coughing. It is a lie. He knows it is, despite the compulsion to cover it up. To box it in with reason, logic, to make it fit.

He watches the exterior world, a comfortable pane between them. It is, he knows, the dreams.

The dreams have some meaning, some reason, maybe. He can’t remember enough to make sense of it, to fit the little bits together into a whole piece. He feels cold, in the dreams, cold and like someone is watching him. Maybe he runs, Walt isn’t sure, maybe he looks for something to fight with. He thinks there is snow, or maybe sand, dead empty trees; everything is blue-white. Something is whispering, dissonance and hisses, a mad bag of beetles and cats. There is nothing behind him, Walter knows, because he turns, looks, catches shy little after images. Of a shoulder, skin jelly-fish transparent, gray muscles pulling bleached bones, black veins like lace. Lips like the drowned; oil-slick eyes.

And then he is awake, cold sweat and a tug like his belly is unraveling. As the adrenaline recedes, the dead weight of exhaustion settles onto him, and he coughs. The bathroom mirror shows the strain—pale skin, blood-shot eyes rimmed with purple bags.

Like Jesse, Walt thinks. Suddenly Walt needs to speak to him, needs to know. The way things have been, he is not sure he can, not sure his good intent will be understood. There is not time today, anyway; Skylar will collect him and Jr, and they will leave. He sinks again into the comfort of rationalizing—maybe it is just stress, just worry about the scan. Just fear about the results. Maybe Walt is just tired from the cancer, and maybe Jesse is just a junkie.

Maybe.


	3. Chapter 3

He’s afraid, all the time, always, every second. When he’s awake, when he sleeps, he’s afraid. Afraid of what? Of the things he sees every time his eyes close, the blood and the bullets and the dead. Of what it means to not see those things. Because he doesn’t see them when Jane is nearby, when she holds him. He sees other things instead. He can’t always tell if it’s real, if it’s a trip, if it’s a dream.

He can’t remember things, forgets what happens after the sun comes up, when she isn’t there—it’s like fog in the light, little bits of memory fading away. At night, with her, he tells himself he has to remember, remember what he sees, what he knows, but then the sun is up and burns it all away. When he goes out, drops the crystal off, gets the money, he can’t remember why he’s so jumpy, why his head keeps telling him to run, and he thinks maybe he should stop using like Jane did. Just stop.

There is no running, why would he run? Jane is waiting for him, like a steady light in a dark place, like nothing else he has. He’ll go back, and she’ll be there, she has to be there because maybe he needs her. And he hopes that maybe she needs him, too. Even if he’s scared, he thinks he loves her, which has to mean something. You can’t love something like that, can’t love someone and be afraid of them, right? He isn’t sure. He can’t remember, and he feels guilty, like he’s letting himself down, like maybe if he tries hard, fights harder, to remember what is so important, it would stick.

Mr. White calls him stupid, idiot, and maybe he’s right. Maybe if he was smarter he could understand what was going on, what was happening to him. Why he was so tired, why the hairs on the back of his neck were always up. But he must be stupid, because Jane is amazing, Jane is beautiful and funny and she doesn’t judge him. He must be an idiot to even doubt her.

He’s afraid of losing her. Afraid of her. He can’t tell anymore if that’s bad. Losing her would be bad, wouldn’t it? Yeah, he thinks it would be. Maybe. He can’t remember the last time he saw her eat, but that’s okay, really, because she looks healthy—her skin is perfect—glowing, he thinks—her hair, soft and dark like silk, and this spark in her eyes. She is okay. They are okay. Everything. Is. Okay.

Sometimes, when she ties the rubber around his arm, he says no, not right now, not today. But she hushes him, holds his shaking arm with fingers that burn like branding irons. She loves him, would she do anything to hurt him? You don’t hurt the people you love, she tells him, as the needle pushes into a vein, plunges euphoria and the dark that chases it beneath his skin. He relaxes, floating, dissolving, mixing with air and smell and touch into nothing and everything.

This is when Jane likes to fuck him, when he floats, when he can’t be sure what he sees is real or some kind of repeat of his trip. It’s just a spiral, like madhouse mirrors; her eyes, slit like a cat’s, her hair less human, more like thick fur, skin so pale he can see dark veins through it, the cold burn as she rides him. After, he thinks he cries, covers his face, turns away from her; she whispers that it’s okay, that nothing’s wrong, molds herself to his back, holds him. She says to sleep, when he wakes up, everything will be better.

He guesses it is better. He doesn’t know. Maybe it’s okay, not a thing is wrong, because Jane says so, and he thinks that he might believe her. She says everything is okay. And maybe it is. Yeah.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s almost like old times, like normal—out in the desert, cooking and bickering. Walt can almost forget about everything, fall into the steady rhythm of measurements and chemicals and the art of it. Even Jesse seems brighter, more awake, the farther they got from the city. He is positive, very hopeful with the outcome of this cook.

He should have known it would turn to shit. Should have known not to trust Jesse, to never trust Jesse. Jesse who can’t even bring enough food or water, who doesn’t even have the common sense of a pebble. Jesse, who is smiling more than Walt has seen in a month, who had whimpered in his sleep all during Walt’s night watch.

They sit across from each other now, blankets and sweaters and hats not completely keeping away the cold; neither of them can sleep. Despite this, Walt says, “Try to get some sleep.”

“Can’t,” Jesse mumbles, running a palm over his cheek.

“Can’t?” Walt asks, trying to catch his eyes.

The kid sighs, closes his eyes and leans back against the wall, “I have these, like dreams or something. It’s like all the time, every time I try, and I’m like, twice as tired when I wake up.”

Walt sits up on his cot, “What kind of dreams?”

“You know, nightmare shit.”

“Jesse,” Walt presses, “what kind of dreams?”

“It’s her, okay?” Jesse blurts out. “She’s not, I don’t know  
what she is. She isn’t, she’s not—I don’t know. I see stuff sometimes, when, when we’re—things I don’t think she wants me to, and then I can’t always remember, only at night or when I’m far enough away.”

“Jesse,” Walt tries again, “what do you see?”

And Jesse tells him. Tells Walt about the fear and the need and dreams that aren’t really dreams. He tells him about Jane, about what she is at night, with him, the drugs and the tiredness, and the things he can’t be sure are real. Jesse starts crying at some point, when, Walt can’t be sure; but he stutters on, one sentence after the other, halting to catch his breath, to wipe at his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

Tells him about pale, translucent skin with a black web of veins, the dark eyes and their cat-slit pupils. How sometimes she burns him with a touch, and Jesse pulls up a sleeve to show healing blisters just above a boney elbow.

Walt replays his own dreams of a dead-skinned woman, the white light twisting features into nothingness, a burning that could be heat or deep cold. He does not share this with Jesse.

A long silence, the only sound Jesse’s sniffling. “You, you believe me, right Mr. White?”

Walt watches him, his steady gaze meeting the kid’s wide and watery one. “I—yes, Jesse. I believe you.” Jesse nods, starts to cry again, and mumbles ‘thank you’ again and again.

 

In the morning, they do not talk about it, other things like surviving are more pressing. When the crank does not work, Walt builds a battery. The engine cranks to life, and they are too happy, too relieved to be anything but grateful. Not until they sit at the terminal, Jesse’s car rattling around them, does Walt say anything.

Walt starts, awkward, “Jesse, about, about what we talked about. Last night. We’ll figure something out. There has to be some kind of explanation, a solution, okay? We’ll fix this.”

Jesse looks confused, looks at Walt like his brain is scrambled eggs. “Yeah, um, okay, sure. What are we talking about here?”

Walt stares at him, “What we talked about last night, Jesse. Do you remember anything you said?”

The confusion turns to panic, darting eyes, but is quickly hidden with anger, “Yeah, telling you to kiss my ass after you blamed everything on me.” He snorts in disbelief.

Walt cannot think of what to say, of what to do. So he gets out of the car, grabs his bag, and watches Jesse drive away.


	5. Chapter 5

She doesn’t want to answer it, when it asks; maybe she will pretend not to hear—its voice is a whisper, cracks in the middle. She could ignore it, but she is bored.

“What are you?” it asks. She is many things, the least of which it would understand.

“I’m Jane,” she tells it, lifting her chin to rest on its shoulder, presses herself firmly against its back. It’s not a lie, not really; she is still Jane, though not completely her. She wears Jane, yes, but Jane shaped her; Jane told her how to lace up that pair of boots she loves, the names of her parents and friends and coworkers. Jane showed her how to draw, to get the shade just right, how to cut an apple to see a star in the middle.

Jane gave her this world—the rain and the tug of a car as it passes her on the sidewalk. This is not just a gift. This is a payment. She heard Jane, the hopes and desperate hurt. She heard them from the Wasted Land; and she answered, made everything easy for Jane—let her in, and there would be no more pain or worry or rehab and withdrawal.

She has those last seconds, those little thoughts, as Jane allows her in. Jane feels warm, and safe, and like every bad thing is dropping away. Then nothing; that Jane is gone, and this Jane is here.

“No.” It says. It does not cry, stares at the wall.

She hooks an arm under it, touches the pale chest gently, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re not really—”

It stops when she runs a nail against its throat, smiling as it shivers. She pulls it around, cups its jaw, “Even if I told you, even if you knew, would it matter? Could you leave? Would you even want to?” She leans against it, fixes on its eyes as it fits everything together, understands.

And like that, her toy is broken.

Something in its eyes dims, a little thrill runs through her as the fight runs out of it. It doesn’t flinch when she touches it, using her hand to work it into excitement, still holding its face. She straddles it, moving her hips slow and not entirely gently, bracing herself against its chest.

It looks away, squeezes its eyes shut. “No,” she tells it, grabbing its face. “Open your eyes,” she gives a sharp jerk; it whimpers and obeys. They go wide; she lets it see her, as real as she can be in this skin.

“What are—” she doesn’t want to talk anymore; she wraps a hand around its throat, squeezes until no sound comes out. It barely struggles under her, doesn’t lift a hand. She thinks it doesn’t matter, this is hers now, it won’t run and it won’t fight.

Before its eyes roll back, she leans in, whispers her Name in the shell of its ear.


	6. Chapter 6

Walt lifts the insulation, grabs a stack of bill, drops them into the duffle bag. He knows what happens when he hands this money over. He knows he won’t see the kid again. Jane will make him disappear; this is her endgame.

He isn’t sure which is more important to her—the money or destroying Jesse’s last bridge. Get rid of the only person that would care if some burn-out goes missing. Not that it matters, Walt knows. Even if he tells someone, no one would listen.

Whatever Jane is, it is not some junkie whore. Walt thinks he has an idea; he’d been busy—research is easy, internet and books. The websites are less helpful—naked women and bad gothic poetry. He does better at the library. Walt tries not to remember the look a clerk had given him at the research desk when he asked about it.

The dreams have stopped, and Walt is sure that means something. He is running out of time, and his options are too few.

The glass pane rattles when he knocks, harder than he intends to. Fast, like she is waiting nearby, Jane opens the door; over-bright and flushed, she grabs for the bag.

Walt swings the duffle back, “Not you,” he says, “Jesse. Only Jesse.”

She smirks, swings the door wide, and moves away; Walt follows, carefully monitoring the gap between them. He shuts the door, looks up to see her standing beside the chair Jesse is slumped in. He notes Walter’s presence, eyes sliding slowly to meet his, then away. Walt cannot be sure if this blurry slowness is only from drugs.

“Go on,” Jane encourages, her eyes half-closed as she watches down the bridge of her nose, “give it to him.” Walt makes no move, stands regarding her and Jesse. That smirk, the tilt of her chin, eyes dark with something like pride—she knows, Walt is certain, that he has some understanding of her.

She tucks an arm across Jesse’s shoulders, and Walt notices the bruises on his neck. Pale skin, lines of red and purple. Her smile is anything but repentant. He tries not to notice how small Jesse looks, swallowed by a baggy shirt and denim.

Jesse stands as Jane pushes at his shoulder. He reaches for the bag, hesitant like Walter might snatch it away. Walt doesn’t let go of the strap until Jesse looks at him—he does not hold eye contact for more than a second.

Walter lets the bag go, “Jesse—son,” the kid locks his eyes on the floorboards, refuses to look at him, “let’s talk about this. Please, just—”

“You should go,” Jane says, leaning against the chair. It hangs there, dead and awkward in the silence. Walt wants to explain this to Jesse, make him understand what this is, what this means. There’s something futile in his anger, a low-burning rage at Jesse’s near casual acceptance.

Walt wants him to fight.

“You won’t hear from us again,” Jesse’s voice wobbles. Walter doesn’t move, just watches his face, and Jesse drops the bag,  
“C’mon, Mr. White”. The kid takes a step forward, but Walt makes no move to leave. He sighs, nudges at him, and Walt can feel his hands shake, little tremors through his coat. More force this time, and Walt refuses to budge until Jesse drops his shoulder and pushes.

They struggle for a moment, then Walt stumbles a little, growls “Fine,” at the kid’s guilty face. He wants to say more, object, get a reaction from Jesse, but he is walking back towards Jane; he kicks the duffle bag further from Walter.  
Jane watches him as she pulls Jesse into a one-armed hug, presses a cheek against his bruised neck, and smiles. Walt slams the door behind him.

It isn’t until Walt fumbles for his keys in the bar’s dim parking-lot that he finds the slip of paper in his coat pocket.


	7. Chapter 7

The needle goes in easier than Walt thinks. He half expects some kind of Superman gag—the metal would curl back, snap, no damage done to the flesh beneath. But it doesn’t, it slips in with a small pop of resistance as it breaks the skin. He pushes the plunger, empties 250 mL of thick gray liquid into a vein, hopes it’s enough. When he yanks the syringe away, no blood escapes the hole.

For a moment, Walter fears nothing will happen.

Jane opens her eyes, tar-black and cat slit; she meets Walt’s, slow but viciously aware. He smells it before he sees the thin string of steam rising from the needle wound—sweet and corroded, fennel and offal. He gags but does not move away.

Frowning, she opens her mouth; Walt does not let her speak, “Get out,” he says, deep and harsh. Jane glares, tries again. He cuts her off, “Get out,” and speaks her Name.

She twitches like live wire, tensing and her breath stutters; “No,” she tries.

“Yes,” Heisenberg smiles.

Steam leaks from her eyes, her nose. She wiggles, trying to gulp air down faster than the steam billows it out. Fingers grab at Jesse, claw at him over the blanket; the kid murmurs in his drug-sleep, rolls away.

She hisses away like dry ice, tendrils of dark fog curling from her pores. He covers his mouth and nose with a jacket lapel, ignoring the animal yips and groans Jane manages to make. She convulses once, back arching off the mattress, then stillness.

He is not sure what he expects—his research did not exactly paint a clear picture, but this is the only viable option. He knew when to do it—both Jesse and Jane slept through Walt’s break-in. Seeing Jesse earlier, Walter knew he could never pull free on his own, that the kid didn’t have the will power to reject Jane day after day after day until she leaves him.

Silver, holy water, and a Name. That’s all he needed for this. Colloidal silver is easy to buy. The holy water is more awkward—filling plastic bottles from a church’s stoup, avoiding a priest’s curiosity as he hides the wet bottles in his jacket. That’s two easily combined; dehydrate the colloidal silver, rehydrate with holy water, concentrate. You can buy a syringe in medical outfitters at the local mall, simple.

The Name is key—the catalyst that powers this whole reaction. Walt thinks of the torn piece of take-out menu in his pocket, the heavy, clumsy letters across it—reminds him of when Jr. was learning to write, big chunky letters. Jesse slipped Walt this little message, this little plea, and Walt knows that some part of the kid wants out. And that is enough for him.

He does not expect there to be anything left when the steam slips away with a buzz like cicadas. But a body rests beside Jesse on the bed. Walt is not sure he can call it a person—white silk over twig-fine bones, hollow and sunken, bush-wild hair, no eyes.

He does not try to wake Jesse up; not when he is still high. Walter wants him to see.

 

The call is expected; who else did he have? He calls Jesse ‘son’, tells him to breathe, to calm down, to tell him what is happening. Walter is not completely sure whether it is sadness or terror that cracks Jesse’s voice, sends little notes of panic through his explanation. He gathers that Jesse does not really understand what is happening. Not that Walt can really accept it either.

He reassures the kid, repeats that everything will be okay, that he will take care of it. There is a little flutter of sympathy, for Jesse’s fear and anxiety, for his pain. Walt sees Jane’s face after handing over the money. Smirking, eyes bright like a victory torch. She thinks, then, that she has won, that she beat him. The flutter disappears.

Walt smiles as he hangs up, rocking his daughter.


	8. Chapter 8

You get the call—a body, a girl, needs to be handled. They don’t give much else beside the address and the fact that someone inside is dead. Typical. Pull up, see a kid on the stairs outside; it’s cold, and the idiot isn’t wearing a jacket. Walking up, you see bruises on his arms, on his neck; he watches you like this is some surprise.

Get him up, get him inside—place is a mess, bottles and trash and shit everywhere. You don’t bother—not what you’re here for, so you ask where it’s at. ‘Where’s what’, kid says like he’s a thousand mile north of here. The body, you remind him, leaving out unpleasant names. He stares at an open door, and you make a b-line.

On the bed, half covered in a baggy t-shirt, is a body. You think maybe the kid dug up a grave—it’s just bones and pulled-tight skin. But there’s no stink, and you notice the skin hasn’t turned to leather yet. You wonder where the eyes got to.

It’s strange—not really what you expect. Can’t call the cops, how would you explain? Not gonna happen. You’ve seen shit, out in the desert. Things along the same line as what’s in that bed. So you won’t ask.

Quickly, wipe everything down—grab the needles and the kit and the belt. Grab the pipe and the baggy of rock. Take the bong too, and the little box of weed, throw it in the duffle full of cash. You ask the kid if that’s all until he answers.  
Eventually, someone’s going to ask about that ‘girl’, so they gotta get the story straight—messed around all night, he wakes up and she’s gone, that’s all he knows.

You have to make him say it again and again and again. The slap startles him, but this is serious shit. The kid’s gotta stick to it when someone presses him. He kind of curls up against the wall, and the crying isn’t really doing anything for you. So you get to it. Wrap the thing up in the sheets, grab all her clothes—it’s early enough that no one notices you carrying it to the trunk.

Back inside, you zip the duffle bag up, tell the kid to hang tight, and then you get out of there.

 

It’s a while later that Saul’s asking you to find the kid—apparently they misplaced him. Not hard to find; you saw the tracks, and there’s only so many crack houses in the area. Let Saul know where he is, asks you to meet up with someone to ‘handle’ this. Guy’s not what you expect—little clean cut to be tied up with a junkie. Or so you’d think if you didn’t know what he is.

It’s maybe 15 minutes before the guy’s back; you could have been in and out in five, but hey, the guy wanted to handle it. So you help pull the junkie’s almost dead weight through the fence, toss him in the car. You and the guy try to pretend that there isn’t a sobbing mess in the backseat.

Adjust the rearview, head out.


	9. Chapter 9

The check-in time is ten minutes away; they sit in the parking lot, car idling. They stare out the windshield, Jesse biting a nail, Walt gripping the wheel, white-knuckled. It’s time, and Walt is not sure who wants Jesse to go less. It’s for the best, he reminds himself. Of course it is.

“Okay,” Walt tugs the key from the ignition, “let’s go.” Jesse squeezes his eyes shut, rubs at his forehead. “Let’s go, son,” Walt tries again.

Jesse gives him a look, one that is frustratingly familiar; Walter hopes achingly that the staff won’t have to drag him in. “Son,” Walter starts, dropping a hand onto his shoulder.

“I know. Fuck, I know,” Jesse scrubs at his face again. “I just..”

Walt starts when Jesse jerks to face him, blue eyes wide and manic. “D’you think, like, maybe,” Jesse stops, lets the silence drag. “You think that maybe what was…left of her—like, what she was before—do you think…” Walt does not need for him to finish.

He isn’t sure how much Jesse remembers; from what Walter gathers, his memories are splintered, a twisted up wreck of the past few weeks. Walt think he remembers enough to question things.

But Walter understands what Jesse wants to know. Was there a little piece left from whatever Jane was before? Was it possible that little piece cared about Jesse? Loved him?

No, Walter knows. “Yes,” he says.


End file.
